Death Was On Sale
by decadence of decay
Summary: "Somewhere in my father's unwritten parenting contract it reads: All material demands must be met, especially if I want something from the son (Usually silence; i.e. keeping family secrets secret)." Bob's had it with his father and his games.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Around Christmastime I posted a Bob one-shot and a few of you requested more. A little delayed, but ... your wish is my command.

So from the deep, dark recesses of my brain, I present to you more Bob and, in turn, my extraordinarily fucked Sheldon headcanons. You've been warned.

* * *

My old man conducts his father/son chats like business meetings with Robert Sheldon Sr. at one end of the desk and Robert Sheldon Jr. at the other.

Same, same, same. Always the same. Robert drafts his terms, tells me he's willing to negotiate, or cut a deal _._ The usual business jargon. I give counter terms, and by the end of this, he strolls out satisfied I'll honor his bullshit, and I walk away with enough pocket money to buy every grease's lunch in the goddamn school and still maintain a lofty allowance in spare change. If I want anything specific, all I have to do is wait for the next business meeting, because somewhere in my father's unwritten parenting contract it reads: All material demands must be met, especially if I want something from the son (Usually silence; i.e. keeping family secrets _secret._ )

Today is no different.

"I think we can work something out, don't you?" Mr. Bigshot-I-Own-the-Law-Firm commences, drumming his fingers against mahogany. "An arrangement of sorts."

"Or I tell you to go to hell and storm right on upstairs and tell your wife every last painstaking detail," I hiss just to screw with him and kick my feet on the desk, tearing and scattering what I hope are important documents. "And you get me a damn shrink."

He scratches his clean-shaven chin and raises an eye. "A shrink?"

"If you were a responsible father," I clarify, dragging his papers and my feet to ground in a thunderous swoosh. "Hmm, I'd say a good three years of therapy might help me get over it, 'cause I sure as shit won't ever unsee what I saw. Not to mention that one time—oh, never mind, I remember now. You got me that fancy radio and made it allll better, didn't you?"

A normal father might scold me at this point, but mine? Only interested in the business transaction. "There has to be something you want."

Yeah.

An apology.

A _How was your day, son?_

An acknowledgement of something more than my name and the expectation I'll be him someday.

"Go on," he prompts, "I'm listening."

My eyes drift to built-in shelving, lined with encyclopedias, classic literature, atlases, manuals, field guides, and god knows what other publications he's never read. At this point, the collection is just another show of his _modest_ salary and the reason our housekeeper's arthritic joints will never heal.

 _At least he pays three times the going rate for a maid_ , Cherry likes to say, but what integrity could the man possibly have when he'll write a check at anything?

"I'm talking to you, son."

"Well, I'll be damned, Dad, if that ain't the most paternal thing you've said to me all evening."

"I am your father, young man," he continues and fidgets with a pen like the bored kids in Chemistry. "I've always told you I'd give you the world if I could, so tell me what it is you want."

"Shut up, just shut up!" I slam my fists against the desk and swipe everything to the floor. "Shut the hell up and listen to me. I have unfortunately vivid memories of yesterday, and all you wanna talk about is this goddamn deal."

He drops to his knees to salvage what he can of the mess, curses slithering off the tongue. "Damn it, Robert, would it kill you to help me?"

"Actually, it might kill me," I tell him, swallowing back bile and picking at my nailbeds until he bothers to speak to me again.

"All right, all right." He resumes his throne, summons my attention. "There are still a few items to discuss."

"Wait a minute." My stomach contorts, throat closes off. "I'm a complete shithead to you, and you still wanna reward me?"

"It would seem I'm in a bad position, so—"

"No shit you're in a bad position. Your secretary—Marjorie, right? The one who looks like a centerfold?—bent over your desk—"

"I already told you, we're past the point of denial." And I dare say it's a firm tone. "Marge and I, we, uh, we have connections, but listen, Daddy works hard to pay for everything we have. That's why we have nice things, so I need you to—"

"Already heard your shitty excuses," I tell him, waving a hand to dismiss them, "so do me a favor and just say what you're really doing. You've got a mistress because you're a greedy bastard who can't keep it in his pants, and admit it, you think it's Mom's fault for letting herself go."

"I never said that."

"Well, if you won't acknowledge it, I will for you," I continue. "She has let herself go. Not that I blame her, married to worthless prick like you."

"Robert."

"I thought I told you to shut up," I say, stabbing a finger at him. "C'mon, Robert, this is all a piss poor excuse for you to go breaking the commandments when y'all drag my ass to church every Sunday and made me sit through countless Sunday school lessons. _Thou shalt not commit adultery._ I remember that one, do you? You really ought to. Christ, we pray before every goddamn meal."

He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. "I remember something about not taking the Lord's name in vain and honoring your parents."

One wrong comment away from chucking something at his skull, I burst into hysterical laughter. "Oh, you know a lot about morals, don't you? I guess, according to you, she should've read those marriage advice columns a little closer in all her magazine subscriptions your hard-earned money paid for, hmm?"

"Robert," he warns, voice rising a notch, but I'm not done. Not even close to done.

"Or maybe it's your doctor friend's fault," I suggest with a shrug. "You know, the one who gave her a lifetime script of happy pills."

"Just tell me what you want," he says, shaking so much he's rattling the pens and pencils. "I'll get you anything you want if you keep this between us."

Oh, I'll keep it between us anyway. Not for him. Never for him. No, because my mother's a fragile creature somewhere behind the mess, and ruining her "perfect family" fantasy would kill her.

If there are two things my mother is good at, they are denial and playing happy family.

"Yeah, I want two things." I slump over in the chair. "I guess."

"What?" he pleads, scrambling for a sheet of paper to write them down. "For Christ's sake, what?"

"First, I want a glass of that fifty-year-old scotch behind you." I point to the bottle. Yet another display of wealth in the goddamn study. "Right now too."

"You want the whole bottle?" he asks, pulling it down from the shelf and setting it in front of me. My eyes widen. A glass. Just a glass, but I won't look a gift horse in the mouth. I'll take a bottle.

"This? It's nothing. I have better liquor in storage." I roll my eyes as he slides back into his chair. "It's yours on three conditions," he outlines, tapping a finger to the desk. "One, don't tell your mother I gave it to you. Two, don't drink it all at once. Three, don't tell your mother about Marjorie. Now what was that other thing you wanted?"

"A car," I tell him and whip out the ad for latest T-Bird convertible model I'd clipped from of a magazine. "Leather interior. Every add-on available. Take a look."

He gives it a once over, and I half-expect him to toss it back at me and tell me I've gone too far this time.

"Nice choice," he agrees after three seconds deliberation. "You can have any car you want though. You sure you want this one? Don't worry about explaining the gift to your mother. I'll think of a good reason."

I nod after one second deliberation. Ripping it out of the magazine required ten seconds deliberation.

"Let me hang on to this, and I'll check into it tomorrow," he assures me, giving a sharp nod in return.

"I'm tired," I half-mumble and snatch the booze before I forget. "Can I leave now?"

No reply.

I dismiss myself in a haste, and gauging the weight of the bottle in my hands, I know _exactly_ how I'll spend the rest of my night.

And the following night for that matter.

xxxx

"But you already _have_ a car." Randy kneads his temples and heaves a sigh. "I'm sorry, man, but I don't get it. You have car, and a nice one too."

Good ol' Randy, always my conscience.

"I know."

"So why do you need another?"

I don't. "Why the hell not?"

"Don't you think you're being a little hard on him? Blackmailing him like this?" Randy begins, and I'd rather peel every inch of skin off my corpse than listen to this. "I mean, you said you caught him making a pass at her … shit, don't get me wrong, I'd be furious with my ol' man, too, but he didn't sleep with her, did he?"

"No." Not in the version I told him. Images of the real deal are burned in my brain like an Etch-a-Sketch you can't shake clean. "But what the hell do I care? New car."

"Bullshit you don't care." He smacks my arm lightly. "You do too care, Bob Sheldon."

Maybe, Randy, maybe, but not about what you _think_ I do.

"You know how little I care, Randall," I drawl, slinging an arm around his shoulder. "As soon as I get that new T-Bird convertible, with the all leather interior, and every new feature Ford put out this year, I'm gonna total it. Crash and burn. Up in flames."

"You _what_?"

"Christ, I'm pullin' your leg." I cackle and elbow his side. "I'll take Cherry to the drive-in or something. Sheesh."

"Bob, that ain't funny." He wrings his hands and avoids looking at me. Christ hell, he's probably shit himself. "I swear to God, if you even think about—"

"I won't. Lighten up, will you?

"You're lucky," he says. "If I did half the shit you did—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, your old man would let you have it," I finish for him. "Only heard it a thousand times. Sam's just a drill sergeant, ain't he?"

"You don't even want to know what he'd do to me," Randy whines and exaggerates, as usual.

Little does he know he's the lucky one.

"So how long are you gonna blackmail him?" Randy asks.

"As long as it takes."

Only I'm not blackmailing him. I just prefer to think of it that way, prefer to think I hold all the power. Truth: He's bribing me. But _bribe_ leaves an indescribably rotten taste in my mouth, so blackmail it is, and I'll keep making demands.

Sorry, Randy.

I _will_ total the car.

And another.

And another.

And I'll destroy whatever else I get my hands on.

Wear him down completely.

Until he finally gives up and decides this game is no longer worth keeping his infidelity from my mother.

If he wants to play a game, we'll play a game, but I'm going to win.

* * *

If you made it this far, thank you for reading and giving a Bob a chance. I realize not everyone loves him or sympathizes with him as much as I do.

Anyway, I'd very, very, very much appreciate your thoughts! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own.

Thank you for the reviews, follows, and faves from the first chapter—very much appreciated! Sorry it took me so long to get to a chapter two.

* * *

Feet trample up the stairs and down the hallway. God knows Ethel Sheldon's one minor inconvenience away from a mid-life crisis, and the wails amplify when she barges through the door and collapses at the edge of my bed.

"Didn't realize you'd be awake," I mumble into the pillows. "Ain't noon yet."

"I can't take it anymore, baby." She pulls at my shoulders, nails digging at skin, and her shrill cries will pierce our neighbor's eardrums as fast as they'll fucking split mine. "Your father hates me. Kate hates me."

Knowing my kid sister, she's burrowed under covers, feigning sleep. Not that anybody could sleep through this.

"Your baby sister don't even love me no more," the lament drags on and on and on, "and your daddy ain't _ever_ loved me. He's never home either, but you love me, right? You love your mama, don't you?"

I mumble something like _go away, please god, I'm tired, lemme sleep_ , but she tugs and tugs and tugs, driven by some internal motor I'll never understand.

"Yes, but"—I swallow the bitterness or this _do-I-fucking-love-her_ inquisition'll never end—"I'm tired and wanna sleep."

"Do you?" she asks in the whimper of a broken child—no, more like the cry of a pampered cat, incessantly meowing, demanding royal treatment and praise.

Sometimes I miss her drugged stupor and wish someone would give her a lobotomy and keep her forever placated. (I don't miss the stupor. I'm talking out of my ass.)

"Yes, I love you," I tell her, the words mechanical, rehearsed, 'cause sometimes I'm dead positive I love no one, especially myself, but I lie. I'll lie to anyone, and they eat my shit up so fast I wanna puke, but I shut off guilt. I feel nothing. She lies. Lies to me all the times. "Of course, Mom."

"At least you do," she sniffles, and the waterworks eerily halt. "I love you, too, baby. What do you want do you want for lunch? I'll take you out to eat wherever you want. You name it."

"Didn't you hire Anita to make lunch here?" I grumble, pulling the blankets over my head. "I know you did, 'cause the smell of cooking food was making you too nauseated."

"Bob, honey." She pulls the covers down and strokes my hair. "Let Mommy take you out for lunch. You still like that new diner by our church, don't you? I hear they have some new lunch specials."

"I think I'll just be a hermit today, thanks," I tell her, violently throwing the pillow over my head. "Anita's cooking is fine with me."

"Please," she prods. "If Daddy won't take me out for dinner, you can be my lunch date."

"Your argument is anything but compelling." Here it comes, the overwhelming urge to be a selfish puke, because she's as self-absorbed, and I try, try to stave it off, but something takes over and I erupt. "Quit pretending you're doin' this shit for me when it's all about _you._ "

One.

Two.

Three.

Cue the caterwauls.

"Is it too much to ask? Too much to ask?" She springs to her feet in a pissy, pouty, huffy rage. "One little thing after all I've done for you. Look at everything in this room. Every kid in all of Tulsa would kill to be you, and you don't appreciate it. You don't appreciate that I live with a man who doesn't even love me for you."

"For me, huh? Yeah, keep telling yourself that."

"For you," she insists. "So we can have nice things."

"You're right," I tell her, tone sickly sweet. "You're absolutely right—I don't appreciate it any of it, 'cause out of all the damn things you've ever given me, you've never given me what I really wanted."

"What more could you possibly want?" she cries, yanking at the roots of her hair. "What more could you possibly _need_? If you think I haven't done enough for you, you're just as spoiled and selfish and ungrateful as I always knew you were."

"Maybe I am," I tell her. "Maybe I'm mix of all those things and more, and I don't give a shit, 'cause at least I can admit I'm an asshole. You, on the other hand, think you're above reproach, and you're not, Ethel Sheldon, you're not. You're just as shitty and petty and selfish as the rest of the human race, so congratu-fucking-lations, Mother. Still wanna have lunch with me now?"

"I hate you," she tells me as flippantly as Kate screams it at her. "I hate you even more than you hate me."

"Good, I'm glad." (I'm not glad.)

"You really do hate me," she accuses. "You really, really do." (I don't, or I'd have told her about Margie.)

"Now leave me the hell alone."

"Fine then."

Door slam. (She'll be back eventually. Crying fake apologies that are more for her than me, and we'll start this whole stupid game over again if I don't accept them.)

Louder wails.

Just another day at the Sheldon's.

xxxxx

"Real beauty, ain't she? You have good taste."

Robert Sr. drops the keys in my hand. It's been one week since I made the request, and he's already delivered. There's the T-bird I asked for in our damn driveway.

"Just like the one in the magazine clipping," I remark, eyes a little too wide to say much else. "Yeah, real beauty."

"Told you we could cut a deal." He claps a hand to my back. "I'd say you got a pretty good piece out of the bargain, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, Dad, I mean, exactly what I asked for." I fight the urge to roll my eyes. "Say, uh, I was thinking. I'd kinda like to doctor it up a bit, like you did to your car. Put a better radio in. You know, shit like that. See, I was gonna take Cherry on a date tonight, and I figured your car's a little nicer in its current state. I like Cherry a lot and wanna impress her, you know. Same as you like to like to impress Margie, I'm sure."

He grimaces, face contorting itself into an uncomfortable expression I savor far too much.

"If that ain't too much trouble to you, of course," I add. "Feel free to say no at _any_ time, Dad."

"No, no, it ain't too much trouble," he assures me, in the wrong sense of the word _no_. "Just be careful with her. No nicks or scratches or anything."

Oh, I'll be careful, all right. Careful to execute my plan. "You got it, Daddy-O."

Well, the new plan is more of an impulse, 'cause it developed over the past minute and half. He doesn't give a rip about the new car. The metal parts and rubber wheels are as disposable to him as a check he'll throw at anything, but _his_ car, _his_ precious car, well, that might be different.

Sorry, Randy.

So, so, _so_ sorry awfully I'm gonna crash my daddy's car.

(Not sorry. Not fucking sorry at all.)

xxxxx

Cherry talks and talks and talks, but doesn't really say anything. Sometimes she reminds me of my mother that way.

"God, can you just shut up?"

"Excuse me?" she snarls. "Were you paying attention to anything I just said?"

"Not really, no."

"Glory, and don't think I don't smell the liquor in your breath," she continues. "You stash a flask somewhere and down it while I went to the bathroom?"

"None of your damn business what the hell I did or didn't do."

"You've really been a jerk all night," she tells me, and she's right. "Why'd you even take me to the drive-in if you were just gonna be an asshole?"

I am being an asshole. Again, she's right. God, I feel more like my father than I have in a long time. The evening started out okay and nosedived into shit, but I don't have a choice. She can't be in the car. She has to hate me enough to want to leave.

"Here." I hand her all the money in my pocket. "Get out and pay someone to give you a ride home. Find a payphone and call a cab. I don't care. Just get out of the car."

"Bob, what the hell's gotten into you?"

"Get the fuck out of the car," I demand. "Just do it. Go."

"Bob, what the—"

"I love you, okay?" I tell her. "But you have to leave. Just trust me. Go. You can't be here right now. Get out of the car."

"Bob—"

"You have to." I slam a fist against the dashboard. "You have to, baby, you have to. Please, please, please just get out of the car."

She finally listens, tears rolling down her cheeks, and I almost abandon the whole operation right then and there, but I can't.

I have to do this. Business transactions with my father flicker like a broken record interspersed with my mother's pity-me laments and hysterical ravings, and I pull out of drive-in, twenty over the limit by the time I hit the road, unsure who I want to punish more at this point.

My mother doesn't deserve my father's shit, but I don't deserve hers any more than his.

I don't, Ethel Sheldon. You hear that? I don't.

I'll decide who at the last second, the moment of impact. No, fuck. Decide, you piece of shit! Decide!

Swallow the remaining liquor in the flask. Grasp the steering wheel until my knuckles go white.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Mom or Dad? Mom or Dad?

Decision: Mom _and_ Dad.

No time for additional decisions. No time. No time. No time.

Step on the gas. Swerve into the nearest tree.

Black.

Everything black.


End file.
